


(stay away from) the hooks

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Inspired by 172 but no spoilers, M/M, Mental Instability, Metaphorical Body Horror, Suicidal Thoughts, i'm realizing this is a very dark set of tags lmao, which is a weird pretentious tag but like...if you don't like fishhooks do not read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: There was a life before the Spider. There must’ve been. He must’ve been...not normal, never normal, never capable of sitting and talking and being like everyone else, but…Maybe he was doomed from the start. Maybe he was born with the First Hook already attached. Maybe there was never a choice. The book was there, waiting for him to pick it up, waiting to flick the first domino in the nightmarish Rube Goldberg machine of his existence.(On Jon, his lifelong relationship with the Web, and the hooks it has in him)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	(stay away from) the hooks

**Author's Note:**

> You may ask, hey Eli, what the fuck is this? I could not tell you, but boy do I have some feelings about it, inspired by the actual panic attack 172 gave me lmao. Hope you enjoy.  
> (Title from Gimme Sympathy by Metric, which coincidentally is on my ever-expanding jonmartin playlist)

i. The First Hook ( _ the one jammed into the underside of his chin and up through the floor of his mouth, the one that drags him ceaselessly through his life and will not let go _ )

There  _ was  _ a life before the Spider. There must’ve been. He must’ve been...not normal, never normal, never capable of sitting and talking and  _ being _ like everyone else, but…

Maybe he was doomed from the start. Maybe he was born with the First Hook already attached. Maybe there was never a  _ choice _ . The book was there, waiting for him to pick it up, waiting to flick the first domino in the nightmarish Rube Goldberg machine of his existence.

It doesn’t really matter, though, does it, whether he was meant to read it or not, because he did. He did, and someone died for it, and he was left  _ hooked _ . Scratching desperately at his neck, trying to pull it out for years. 

His grandmother was mostly apathetic but oddly watchful nonetheless, so--so he hid the hook and his attempts to wrench it out until he was on his own. 

Uni saw him bleeding endlessly and futilely on his dorm room floor as he finally got the chance to pull hard, staying up for days, taking too much of the medication they gave him to  _ focus _ , just trying to disprove every single piece of the supernatural he could.

He had no interest in people, only trying to free himself of the memory ( _ Mr. Spider wants more) _ but it didn’t fade, no matter how hard he tried, so he tried to ignore it. Shifted himself into a position where the hook didn’t pull on him as hard. Didn’t hurt. Just...existed as part of him.

He got a girlfriend. Went to parties. Tried to socialize and finally be  _ normal _ in a way he’d never gotten to before.

But there isn’t any escaping. Once the First Hook is in, there’s always going to be

ii. The Second Hook ( _ the one dug through his wrist, bending his elbow, bringing his hand to his mouth) _

This should’ve been a benign one. Enter Jon, eighteen, standing outside of a party Georgie dragged him to, smoking his first ever cigarette in silence. An excuse not to be inside, something to do with his hands. A way to forget the First Hook.

A way to make friends. A quiet source of company on the streets of Oxford, the people avoiding their cramped, messy lives, smoking in solidarity on the sidewalk. Trading one hook for another. There was no better way to finally feel some sort of fucking kinship with humanity, for  _ once _ .

Except this hook pulled constantly, forcing rote, mindless motion to keep the pain down. But why even try to stop? It kills slowly, and death, certainly, would make every hook come loose.

Enter Jon, twenty-two. Newly single, heart beating raw pain at the thought. Trying to quit as an act of rebellion against himself, to prove--to himself, to Georgie, to the world--that he had control over  _ something _ in his life. That there was something that he could  _ stop _ . 

But the hook didn’t stop pulling, and maybe he was weaker than he’d always fancied himself. He lasted three days before the pain got white-hot and unbearable. That second-first cigarette tasted like the loving home he’d idly dreamed of, pieced together from all the books he’d read before he’d been put off books for years.

Enter Jon, twenty-five, trying to quit for the fifth or sixth time, but  _ actually _ this time, because  _ really, Jonathan, it’s a disgusting habit and it’ll kill you  _ was one of the last things his grandmother ever said to him, clicking her tongue. Maybe that was proof she cared. Maybe she just didn’t want to have to smell it on him. 

He chewed on pencils all day at work, tried to ignore the simultaneously scathing and pitiful looks Gertrude threw him whenever he had to go in to speak with her. At his grandmother’s funeral, he bit his nails because there was nothing else to keep the craving down, nothing to stop the hook pulling, and his distant, uncaring relatives looked at him like a curiosity. The odd cousin.

He actually managed it that time. But nothing ever lasts, does it? The Second Hook never really came out, and when he finally let it pull him again, the relief was sickening, and yet  _ nothing _ compared to

iii. The Third Hook ( _ the one through his eye, the one that would blind him if he were not the type of monster he is _ )

He denied the Third Hook until he couldn’t any longer, until he was a shuddering mess of a husk of a man, until the hunger became a void whirling in him and he had to fill it with other people’s fear or die on the floor.

Maybe he should’ve died. But feeding felt better. The hooks all but disappeared in those too-brief moments where he breathed in, drank in,  _ bathed _ in that sweet, fragrant, warm mess of human fears and traumas. 

He hated himself for it, of course. Tried autocannibalism, but his statements meant nothing to him. No sustenance to be found there. And he had to live. But  _ why  _ did he have to live, when dying would’ve ( _ the First Hook yanked him up and out of every tailspin, every moment spent razorblade in hand, there is a  _ plan _ for you, you stupid little man _ )--

There was satiation, and there was shame, and the two were so inextricably connected he couldn’t tell the difference. Or that was just another lie he told himself to feel like the hero still, despite the mounting pile of evidence to the contrary. Of course he knew the difference. Shame weighed heavy, pulled him down against the hooks. Feeding--feeding felt dizzying and heartracing and euphoric.

And now, now that he doesn’t even have to  _ try _ ? He  _ doesn’t _ have to try. That’s the truth of it.  _ Admitting you have a problem is the first step to _ \--

He doesn’t have to try, but he kills monsters anyway, and it feels so  _ right  _ it nearly brings him to his knees. The Eye telling him what a  _ good boy _ he is. He forces himself to have doubts, to feel shame, because he is still playacting human in the hopes he’ll feel it, like he’s always done, his whole life, but truly? Truly the only thing keeping him from admitting to all of this is--

iv. The Fourth Hook ( _ the one straight through his heart _ )

Martin Blackwood. The most unlikely piece of the web of hooks and wires threaded through Jon. Love is a powerful but dangerous drug, especially now,  _ especially _ \--and Jon fell fast, like it wasn’t even his  _ choice _ , like a fishing hook reeling him in, and his mind chews endlessly at that until it just bites through its own tongue.

He loves Martin on  _ purpose _ . He must. But--does it matter? Martin is the only thing he has left to lose. The only thing he’s--he can still feel fear, then, thinking of losing Martin proves that, but--

Could it be just another compulsion? Another hook? Another addiction? Something else prescribed, another string plucked in the web they’re all fucking trapped in?

He doesn’t want to know. So he doesn’t. Martin is his reason, his anchor, the hook he stabbed deep into his own heart to keep himself sane and grounded. 

It still pulls like the rest. Still keeps him suspended off the ground, still dangling, still on the end of a silk string.

He’s always just been a fucking puppet, hasn’t he? Another sick marionette tied to the ends of the Spider’s legs.

He wants a cigarette. Wants the rush of a monster dying by his hands (or his god’s hands, but is there a difference anymore?). Wants to kiss Martin and tell him he loves him. 

He  _ wants _ . The hooks pull.

_ Cue laughter. _

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is appreciated!  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend.


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